


tongue twister

by orphan_account



Category: The 1975 (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, a game of twister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Timmy does not kiss people at parties. He doesn’t drink this much at parties either. But the stranger is gazing at him expectantly, Timmy’s hand resting against his flushed skin, and he’s not all that bad looking. So he kisses him.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Matthew Healy
Kudos: 14





	tongue twister

**Author's Note:**

> Aka Matty and Timothee make out to Taylor Swift while heavily intoxicated and Nick Grimshaw plays Twister with Harry Styles on a trampoline

Timmy is drunk. He has also conveniently nestled himself in the corner of someone’s couch, sprawled across the raggedy cushions as Nick tugs repeatedly on his ankle. 

“Timmy,” Nick says for the fourth time in a row. He gives Timmy’s leg another weak, incessant yank. “Timmy. Get up. I have an 8 A.M. lab tomorrow and I will cry if I miss it.”

Stupid. Nick is a biology major, so that’s on him. And last time Timmy checked, Nick skips all of his labs because the Dungeons & Dragons club is scheduled precisely at the same time. It’s exactly the type of thing he’d expect Dungeons & Dragons players to do. Timmy ignores Nick and instead focuses on his wrinkled socks. 

“There are little ghouls on my socks.” Timmy waggles his toes, almost kicking Nick in the face. “Nick, look at them.”

Nick cringes away from Timmy’s foot. “That’s Moomin. You’re drunk, come on.”

“No, they’re ghouls,” Timmy insists. He _ knows _they’re ghouls. It’s like, innately programmed knowledge that there are ghouls on his socks. 

“I bought those for you on Amazon. You specifically had me search _ Moomin socks_.” Nick tries to pull on Timmy’s foot again but he wrenches away, flopping his legs down so they’re half-dangling off the couch. He can see his own warped expression in the nearby coffee table. “How much did you have to drink?”

“Not enough, dear Nicholas,” Timmy points a finger at Nick. He looks funny from this angle with the mussed-up state of his hair, like a frustrated toucan. “How much did you have?”

“Not a lot, because I’m not an idiot. Please get up.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Before Nick can continue begging Timmy to move his enormous ass from the couch, which he does not plan on doing, Harry stumbles into Nick’s side. He has an alarmingly wet, large stain down the front of his Union Jack tank top that Nick makes a point of eyeballing. He’s like a freaking housemaid. Timmy would call him OCD as a joke, but it’s not politically correct according to Saoirse. He trusts Saoirse more than his own judgement. 

Harry decides not to pay Nick’s expression any mind as he claps Nick on the back rather roughly. “Nick!” Harry exclaims. 

“_Harry,”_ Nick says, clearly pained. “What’s up?”

“Me and Alexa are playing Twister in the backyard and we need more players. Do you wanna join? It’ll be super fun.”

Nick glances into the yard through the glass door. There’s the normal amount of students wandering around, downing watery beers, sucking face, etc. on the grass. Alexa is in the center, struggling to unfold a Twister tarp as the box is kicked several feet to the side. Timmy is very bad at Twister and board games in general. 

Harry gives Nick a hopeful look, widening his eyes. 

“I’m not sure,” Nick feigns an apology. He even goes to the length of scratching the back of his head distractedly. “I’m pretty shit at Twister, and I’ve gotta get home.”

“Please? There’s a trampoline in the yard.”

Nick pauses, considering. “A trampoline?” 

“Yeah. It’s so awesome. Hey, we can play _ Trampoline Twister._”

“Okay,” Nick raises his eyebrows at Timmy like, _ this alright_? Timmy gives him a loose thumbs-up, grinning widely and disregarding the possibility of a severely twisted ankle. Finally, Nick’s being thrown into something cooler than D&D. “That sounds fine.” 

Harry fist pumps, cheering directly into Nick’s ear. Nick flinches. “Yes! Trampoline Twister!”

“Timmy, do _ not _move,” Nick calls out as Harry drags him towards the back door. “You are way too intoxicated to leave that couch.”

Timmy does the literal opposite of what Nick tells him and gets up from the couch to find Saoirse. He swears she’s still here—he’s seen glimpses of her bleach-blonde hair, the glittery makeup on her eyelids flashing underneath the light—but he can’t text her because his phone is dead and stowed in Nick’s fanny pack. Nick brings _ fanny packs _with him everywhere to carry his friends’ stuff. Scratch a housemaid, he’s like Timmy’s babysitter. What a terrible job. 

He finds Saoirse dancing with her friends among a clump of people in the living room. She’s doing this weird hip-thrusting dance move in her pink biker shorts to an old Kesha song blasting from the heinously shitty speakers jammed in the back of the room, chin-length hair flying around her face as she bounces up and down. Timmy has to shout into her ear twice to get her attention, which really gives him faith about the future of their hearing following their partying habits. 

Saoirse squeals, blue eyes shining, and grabs Timmy by the shoulders. “Timmy! I was wondering where you went! I texted you like, four times.”

“Heyyy,” he says over Kesha, swaying in her grip. “My phone died. And I got stuck on the couch with Nick.”

“It’s okay.” She wrinkles her nose, inspecting him like a lab specimen. Saoirse is very observant. “You reek of beer.”

Timmy rubs his eyes tiredly. “Does everyone have to remind me that I’m drunk?”

“It’s just that you never drink this much, kiddo. Good for you.” Saoirse pats his arm firmly. Timmy can’t think that clearly because of all of the junk clouding his senses, but he’s pretty sure it’s commonly encouraged not to get hammered for the sake of his liver. He’s not even 21 yet. “These are my friends, come say hi.”

Saoirse introduces him to her girl gang, screaming their names into his ears until they start to ring and pointing each one out. He forgets them about five seconds later, but when he waves they all giggle and wave back rapidly. Girls are so weird. Saoirse lazily grinds against his behind for half a song, laughing when he leaves to sit against a wall. 

Timmy leans his head back. Dancing really isn’t for him, especially with his head beginning to pound from the unbelievable low levels of water in his system and a speaker set that sounds like it was fished out of a dumpster. 

Someone says beside him, “Not a dancing person?” 

He shakes his head without looking, then turns around. A guy with a disheveled mass of curly hair and half-unbuttoned floral shirt sits next to him, vacantly watching Saoirse throw it back to Taylor Swift with interest. The sight is a little silly. But Timmy finds him kind of cute. 

“No, not really. You?”

“Umm,” he draws the word out, his speech slurred. Timmy notes the plastic cup crushed in the guy’s hand. “Wouldn’t say I am.” 

“Yeah,” Timmy slumps further into the carpet. He’s pretty sure he’s sat on a damp patch. “My friends keep telling me I’m, like—” He stops to adjust his shirt. It’s riding up to show a sliver of his stomach, and the guy next to him is staring. Okay. Timmy definitely doesn’t stare back at his chest tattoos. “Super drunk.”

“You kind of are. No offense.”

“No, no, it’s whatever,” Timmy shrugs. “I’ve never drank this much. I think it gave me irritable bowel syndrome.”

“What?” he says, readjusting his cup. It’s nearly empty. 

“I said I think my drinks gave me irritable bowel syndrome.”

“Oh. I didn’t know it worked that way.”

“Me neither.”

“I might have… this shit syndrome you’re talking about,” he informs Timmy. 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 22,” Taylor Swift’s voice booms at an uncomfortable proximity. 

They stop talking and Timmy settles on ogling the guy’s hair instead. It looks soft, like he could touch it and run his hands through it and twist it around his fingers. He loves to play with long hair. It’s so nice. 

He doesn’t process for a second that he’s actually reached out, fingertips hovering over the guy’s face, thumb close enough to brush his bottom lip. It’s pink and puffy from chewing. Timmy blinks dumbly when the guy lets out a tiny laugh.

“Oops,” Timmy smiles goofily. 

“Haha,” he says. His eyes flicker to Timmy’s mouth, which is generally a good sign. “S’okay.”

Timmy does not kiss people at parties. He doesn’t drink this much at parties either; he hasn’t ingested this much alcohol in the last month combined, counting Saoirse’s bland-tasting cans of White Claw and the bottle of Mike’s Hard Lemonade he found abandoned on a table in the dining hall. But the stranger is gazing at him expectantly, Timmy’s hand resting against his flushed skin, and he’s not all that bad looking. He’s actually pretty good looking, from what his deprived brain can tell. So he kisses him. 

It’s probably the strangest thing Timmy’s ever experienced—Taylor Swift is still playing over the speakers and it’s taken him only a minute to crawl onto the stranger’s lap. A hand’s settled on his back as Timmy sloppily grabs at the guy’s hair again and Taylor sings about never getting back with her boyfriend, _l__ike ever. _ Someone wolf whistles when the abandoned cup is knocked over and the remainder of the liquid leaks onto the floor. And Timmy thinks he tastes like salt. _ Weird. _

He breaks away once he hears Nick calling his name angrily. Nick ruins everything good in life. “Timmy! What did I tell you? Stay on the couch.” He points in the direction of where Timmy came from, like Timmy doesn’t know where the couch is. 

“Huh?”

Nick maneuvers himself so he can see who was shoving his tongue down Timmy’s throat only seconds earlier, crossing his arms. “I told you to stay on the couch while I played Twister with Harry, and you’re making out to Taylor Swift with Matty. It’s time to go home. That Twister game lasted much longer than I thought, and I think I sprained my ankle.”

“What,” Timmy whines, sliding off of Matty. Matty frowns. “_Nooo. _He’s pretty.” He demonstrates his thoughts by petting Matty’s hair again. 

“Yeah, Nick,” Matty bobs his head. 

Timmy is upset Nick never introduced him to Matty before. He is upset Nick walked in on them, because he would be kissing Matty and touching his amazing hair, but now Nick’s wedging his hands underneath Timmy’s arms and hoisting him up. Timmy thinks he’s going to cry. 

“Sorry, Matty,” Nick says unapologetically, dragging Timmy upwards as Timmy groans loudly. “We’re leaving now.”

They leave without another glance, Nick flinging Timmy into a row of seats on the 24 hour bus back to his dorm. Nick promises to forward Matty’s information to Timmy _ in the morning,_ which quite possibly translates to _ never_, so when Nick isn’t looking, Timmy sets multiple alarms on Nick’s phone with much confusion involved and cranks the volume all the way up. Nick is busy inspecting his bruised legs after an apparently brutal game of Twister. 

“Drink some water,” Nick reminds Timmy once he’s shoved his key into the lock multiple times. He’s convinced he’s some sort of health guru. 

“Uh-huh,” Timmy says. He wants to go back. He wants to go back and kiss Matty again and not dance with Saoirse or play Twister with Nick and Harry. “Why did we have to go back early?”

“Timmy, it’s three in the morning.”

“I was having fun.”

“You had enough drinks to kill a small buffalo.”

“So?”

“Go to sleep. I have class soon.”

“D&D,” Timmy mumbles before he collapses onto his bed and passes out. 


End file.
